


Delving Into The Shadows

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Abduction, CIA, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Torture, Social Experiments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4355744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Neal suddenly disappears, Peter moves heaven and earth to find him. When he does, Peter begins to doubt that he can ever bring Neal back from the dark side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

     There had been no warning—no omen, harbinger, or preamble of doom, and Peter never saw it coming. One minute Neal was there, and the next minute he wasn’t. The Federal authorities considered his sudden absence as an escape from his parole, and avidly pursued him as a wanted felon. However, his handler knew better; Neal never would leave him just like that. They had been working together for over three years, and, for the last six months of that time, they had been lovers.

     This thing between them was not planned—it just happened spontaneously one night after weeks of intensive work on a particularly knotty embezzlement case. They were both punchy from long hours and lack of sleep, and the bottle of wine and multitude of empty beer bottles precipitated what was eventually bound to happen. Perhaps, they both subconsciously knew that this was inevitable somewhere down the line. When a casual arm slung around a shoulder and a warm hand to the back of the neck brought them in close proximity, well, let’s just say that things progressed!

     Peter reveled in Neal’s soft kiss and his own lips became more demanding. He had endured close quarters with this beautiful young man and never dared to hope. He reconciled himself that being joined at the hip should be enough, but it was a challenge to always remain aloof and professional. Now, throwing caution and good sense out the window, clothes were being unbuttoned and unzipped, and Peter finally managed to experience his pipedream. Neal was warm perfection all over, and a more than willing participant in the endeavor. He wasn’t reticent or shy, and let Peter take the lead as the older man caressed and explored every inch of his body. Like he did with everything else in his life, Peter viewed this quixotic, surreal experience as a mission, and ardently saw it to a spectacular finish.

     One might have thought that there would be ensuing embarrassment in the days that followed. That was about as far from the actual reality as possible. Their liaison continued, and the ties that bound them together tightened; the bonds became stronger. Neal would have walked on hot coals for Peter, and the agent would have taken a bullet for his lover. So, this whole fleeing escape scenario was all wrong, and Peter never had any doubts. There was no uncertainty about Neal’s loyalty, only his safety, and Peter sat up nights with terror in his heart. What had happened to his blue-eyed partner that prevented him from coming home?

     It was a long six months later that Peter got his answer. Local police had accidently stumbled onto the missing CI’s whereabouts when they were investigating the disappearance of a runaway in, of all places, a rural farm in Virginia. They found the teenager, and not in a good way. What else they found was beyond mindboggling, and it was only much later, after ceaseless, tenacious probing, that Peter got all the lurid details from a disenchanted and sympathetic CIA agent who swore him to secrecy.

     The tale was right out of a spy novel. In the early days of the war on terror, the United States government had poured millions of dollars into research. Stupendous grants were given to aspiring scientific minds to hit upon a fool-proof method of extracting information from detainees who were suspected of being enemy agents of fanatical, suicidal sects. Physical intimidation and brutality had been producing few results—zealots actually reveled in their debasement. It was a badge of honor to die for the cause and become a martyr. Therefore, the government issued a mandate to find a better way. Some very great minds took up the challenge, and some deranged minds, hiding behind the façade of sanity, did as well.

     As the years went on, the outlay of capital eventually began to dwindle when results were not forthcoming. An overseeing committee began to cull through data and pare down the less promising contenders. However, some egomaniacal scientists did not take kindly to their abrupt dismissal. It was a slap in the face and dented their super-inflated egos. One such researcher felt that it was a premature dismissal, and the rejection of his work just made him that much more determined to succeed. Thanks to an immense family inheritance and a seemingly bottomless trust fund, he had the resources at his disposal to go rogue in an effort to continue on his own.

   When still part of the program, Dr. X, as he was known in the government dossier, initially used prisoners from the federal penal system as test subjects. The report was heavily redacted, so it remained unclear to Peter as to whether those inmates had volunteered or were just unwitting guinea pigs. It seemed that the scientist was trying to link the efficacy of his methods with a person’s level of innate intelligence. Were smarter people more susceptible to his mind control experiments? Because every convict is given a psychological battery of tests soon after his incarceration, the scientist could view every man’s IQ in all the penitentiaries up and down the East Coast with a few key strokes on his government-issued laptop. That is the only answer for the reason that he had eventually zeroed in on Neal. Having discovered the con man’s genius intelligence quotient, he was determined to have him as the ultimate test subject. However, much to his chagrin, Neal had already been released into Peter’s custody. Although now out of his reach, Neal Caffrey was never far from the doctor’s mind.

     After being given the boot from the program, the scientist slowly began to amass a criminal element of his own. These miscreants filled out a team of associates who were only too pleased to do his bidding while their pockets were lined. They procured the raw material for his experiments. Nobody ever missed a homeless street person. Their shopping carts of trinkets were simply claimed by another derelict one step lower on the totem pole. Young runaways, now years older than their pictures on milk cartons, were also fodder for his tests. Distraught parents had simply given up any hope of finding their wayward offspring who had fallen off the grid.

     The doctor struggled with his research. Again, as before, the hoped-for results were not materializing, and perhaps it was then that he lost his sanity as well as his soul. He ramped up his efforts, only to see his test subjects begin to perish. What his deranged mind failed to understand was the direct correlation to the severe, intensive protocols of his methods. The ever-increasing number of failures were buried deep on that farm in Virginia, while the scientist rationalized that their mundane brains had been at the root of the problem. Eventually, he became obsessed with finding a true genius intellect—he became obsessed with finding and utilizing Neal Caffrey. Ultimately, he did find him in New York City. Dr. X then avidly arranged for his abduction, and possessed him for six long months!

     “Is he dead?” Peter’s voice was flat and devoid of emotion, as he questioned the clandestine government spy.

     The man sighed and took pity on the man before him who was trying desperately to hold it together. He sensed that the FBI agent considered his missing CI to be much more than a Bureau asset. He could lie to the anguished man, and hopefully, that would be the end of it, but, somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

     “He’s not dead, but he may as well be,” he answered softly.

     When Peter just stared woodenly, not daring to ask the question, the CIA agent listened to his heart rather than the “Company’s” directive.

     “When the local police walked onto the farm, they said it was like actually seeing what the history books had chronicled about the experiments performed by the Nazis in those horrendous death camps during World War II. Unfortunately, they were right because I have seen the proof. That insane scientist was methodical about documenting his research. He kept meticulous written records as well as videotapes.”

     The covert government operative saw Peter’s eyes take on the sheen of unshed tears. Maybe the spy had done this tormented man a grave disservice by sharing intel, and undoubtedly, now his life would never be the same. He knew that his own life would never be normal again, and he had witnessed a lot during his many years in the field. Perhaps the CIA agent was finally feeling a sense of guilt fostered by a career fraught with paranoia and deception. Maybe, he reasoned, he would do this one true thing. Then he would retire from government service, and seek a mundane, ordinary life.

     “Look, Agent Burke—Peter—perhaps it is best to think of him as dead. Unofficially, the government is mopping up its mess and has made him disappear. The offshoot of their little science fair competition would be quite embarrassing to explain to the public if a newspaper ever did an exposé. Everybody is in ‘cover their ass’ mode. The local police no longer have any records of their find, and have been told, very strenuously, to stand down. The thirty-seven bodies that were recovered from the graves on that farm will be cremated and disposed of in some fashion. Everything is being scrubbed clean as a whistle.”

     “What was done to him, and where is he now?” Peter’s voice continued to be low, but there was now steel in it.

     The covert operative stared back and began to regret his humanitarian gesture towards providing closure for this man who had just never stopped digging.

     “There was not a mark on his body,” he began tiredly. “The damage was not physical in nature. Dr. X, in his maniacal zeal, managed to damage and ultimately destroy his mind instead. The person that you once knew no longer exists. Maybe it is time for you to mourn him and start living your life again. The entity who was your partner is gone forever.”

     “What was done to him?” Peter demanded to know once again. “Tell me, because the not knowing is definitely not going to help me ‘get over’ anything!”

     After a tense minute, the story teller reluctantly capitulated. Maybe he could satisfy the agent with the broad strokes minus the details. The spy had watched the hours of horrifying video, and those images were definitely not something that he wanted to share.

     “Dr. X began his experiments by taking things away. At first, it was food, but the results were not satisfactory to him. So, then it was sleep. He kept your partner tied to a chair in a room with glaring lights and a klaxon that shrieked every time he closed his eyes. That went on for six days until the seizures started.

     Next was sensory deprivation. Your friend was kept in a pitch-black room, with no sound other than a continuous buzz of white noise. He had no human contact, never heard a voice, or felt a touch. There were previous studies done back in the 1950s to document a subject’s endurance to sensory deprivation. Most candidates lasted ten days before hallucinations began, and they were begging for the session to end. Your friend’s hell lasted for a month!”

     The CIA agent sat back and asked with a quirked eyebrow, “Heard enough, Peter?”

     Peter had learned to read unspoken innuendos and body language from years of interrogating evasive perpetrators. He knew when someone was not telling him everything. Now that he had come this far, he wanted it all laid out, regardless of how much more distressingly diabolical and inhumane those facts might be.

     “You’re holding back trying to spare me. Please do not make assumptions. You don’t know what I am made of; I can handle whatever you tell me without breaking apart. I need to know what ultimately broke him apart.”

     “Agent Burke, …….. just leave it alone.”

     Peter stood up abruptly and loomed over the slighter man before him. “I _can’t_ and _won’t_ just ‘ _leave it_ _alone_ ’! If you’re not more forthcoming, I’m going to ‘break’ a cardinal rule of life—I’m going to bite the hand that’s feeding me. I will be the loudest whistle-blower that you and your fellow spooks have ever encountered. The headlines will appear above the fold in the ‘ _New York Times_ ’ for weeks. I realize that I will be burning my career and the life that I now know, but desperate men do a lot of ‘ _insane_ ’ things.”

     The government man looked at Peter shrewdly. He, too, was trained to read between the lines.

     “This man is more than just a valued colleague at the White Collar office, isn’t he?”

     The sudden sheen that appeared in Peter’s eyes confirmed his suspicions, and the operative could not fathom the depth of this man’s pathos. A loved one had been ripped from him and it was like losing a limb. The phantom pain would always persist, as intense as ever. How do you put that to rest?

     “Look, I get it now. There’s no need to make threats or to fall on your sword. I will tell you what I saw on those videos. They still haunt my nightmares; actually, they made me lose my lunch when I first viewed them, and I have never had that happen before in my long career. What I saw made me question just what defines a person as human? That doctor had left the parameters of being moral, much less being human, far behind.

     Dr. X was provided with a seeming never-ending supply of expendable product for the next stage of his psychological torture. His crew would bring him young people, old people—whomever they could snatch off the street without raising an alarm. One by one, they were brought into a room where your friend was a captive audience. They were strapped down on a table, like in an operating theatre, and then they were systematically maimed and massacred little by little for hours, sometimes days, until their bodies simply gave up the fight. Your friend….”

     “His name is Neal, damn you, his name is Neal!” Peter interrupted heatedly. “Afford him the respect of saying his name!”

     “Right, Neal,” the operative agreed. “Neal had to endure days of this horrendous, inhuman spectacle. On the videos, he is screaming and pleading for the bloodletting to stop. He is promising to do anything, to say anything that the doctor wanted. He screamed until his voice gave out, but it didn’t matter. I think that the original experiment to find a way to extract information from suspected terrorists had gotten lost in the equation when the scientist went off the rails. Now, it seemed as if he just wanted to see how long it took to break someone down into subhuman parts.

    There were quite a few casualties on that table, their screams blending in with Neal’s. Inevitably, their shrieks would eventually stop, and, one afternoon, so did Neal’s. It was eerie to watch. He simply went catatonic, his eyes lost their focus, and no sound came from his raw throat. His body was still there, but his inner self had escaped to God knows where. I would like to think that it traveled to a better place, but, if I’m honest, I think he just achieved blessed oblivion.”

     “What was done with him after your men took over the operation?” Peter was determined to see this to its conclusion. “Was he collateral damage to your clean-up crew and needed to disappear permanently?”

     “Yes,” the other man agreed sadly, “he was collateral damage, but regardless of what you think of your government, we don’t erase damning evidence. We hide it in the shadows.”

     Peter’s eyes narrowed, but he kept silent.

     “We made some alterations to Caffrey’s arrest and prison records. His fingerprints no longer match what is in his file. He actually became a man with no history; no traceable background if anybody tried looking. We pulled a few strings and had him admitted as a ‘John Doe’ into a private psychiatric facility located on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. All that his doctor was told was that he was found in an unresponsive, catatonic state on the streets of Washington, DC. His bills are paid from a clandestine discretionary account that is based in the Caymans and untraceable as well. He has been there for the last two months, and remains catatonic. His doctor is not hopeful of any kind of recovery at this juncture. I truly am sorry, Peter. I know this is not what you wanted to hear, and it’s a bitter pill to swallow.”

     “What I want to hear,” Peter enunciated slowly and distinctly, “is the name of this facility. And I also want to know what happened to the macabre doctor.”

     “Your former partner is a patient at the ‘Mansfield Institute.’ My people can create a plausible, familial link to you so that you can visit. Maybe then, after you have seen what is left of your friend with your own eyes, it will satisfy your need to know.”

     As for the doctor, do not worry about revenge or reprisals. That nutcase will not be performing any more experiments ever again. Unfortunately, it was just not feasible to hide him and his crew in the shadows, so they all became permanent collateral damage!”


	2. Chapter 2

     It took all of Peter’s willpower to wait until everything was in place before he announced to his superiors at White Collar that he was taking an open-ended leave of absence. He gave some vague reason about a long-needed rest. It was a flimsy smokescreen to be sure, but over the years, the higher-ups knew of his expertise and closure rate, and afforded him some leeway. Peter made a vow to himself that he would see this thing through to its conclusion, whatever that was. If his vacation and comp time ran out, he was willing to keep going if there was even a small glimmer of hope. Over the years, he had managed to squirrel away a modest emergency fund, and this definitely qualified as an emergency in Peter’s view.

     Eventually, the disinformation spooks in the “Company” had provided a cover story that would hold up to the unsuspecting administrator at the private hospital where Neal was now a patient. The fairy tale was that Mr. Peter Burke, a businessman from the Midwest, had contacted the local police when he suspected that their “John Doe” might be a distant relative who had mysteriously disappeared from his hometown in Iowa over eight months ago. Peter had come East to make a positive identification, and he now possessed all the legal powers of attorney to circumvent the HIPPA laws and gain insights into the patient’s status if he was, in fact, that relative.

     Peter made the trip from New York to the Mid-Atlantic state, eventually crossing over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge to Maryland’s bucolic Eastern Shore. The Mansfield Institute came into sight as he rounded a bend in the lane, and it reminded him of an old antebellum mansion. The grounds were wooded, the lawns manicured, and everything seemed pristine. Apparently, it was to be nothing but the best for a poor unfortunate victim of a shadow government’s mandate. As beautiful as the exterior tableau appeared, Peter silently dreaded to behold the uncertainty that lurked behind the door.

     He parked in the ample circular driveway and entered the imposing front doors. He was immediately met by a pleasant receptionist who took his information and asked him to sign the “guest” ledger. She then made a call, and within minutes, an older, slightly pudgy white-haired gentleman appeared in business attire. He introduced himself as Dr. Wellington, and escorted Peter back to his sunlit, comfortable office.

     “I was told by a government official that you were going to pay us a visit because you suspect that our ‘John Doe’ may be a second cousin of yours. Do I have that correct?” The physician then raised his eyebrows in a question.

     Peter strove to be more definitive. “I saw his picture in the police file and I am sure that is Neal. His name is Neal,” Peter reiterated for emphasis.

     Dr. Wellington consulted a file on his desk that apparently he had at the ready in anticipation of Peter’s visit.

     “Yes, the information that was given to me says that you believe that this man is Neal Cavanaugh.” The white-haired man was using the name of Neal’s newest alias—a government created and sanctioned one this time around.

     Peter then produced all the documentation, witnessed and notarized, that provided proof that he was Neal Cavanaugh’s next of kin and legitimate power of attorney for his legal and medical issues.

     The administrator, who actually was also a psychiatrist, smiled benignly.

     “I know that you have traveled a long way, Mr. Burke, and are quite anxious for a hoped-for result. Why don’t you just hang onto these papers until you can see the patient in person? Then we can talk for as long as you would like, and you may ask any questions that you may have.”

     He then led the way down the tastefully decorated halls to a side wing of the massive mansion. Soon they came to a warren of bedrooms situated on both sides of that corridor. Most of the rooms were empty and the doors were open. As Peter gazed in fleetingly during their stroll, he saw that each interior was painted in a soothing pastel color with aesthetically pleasing prints on the walls. The furniture was high quality and stylish, the draperies and bed coverlets appealing. The only thing that appeared out of kilter was the small safety glass window mounted at eye-level in each door.

     Finally, at the end of the hall, they came to a closed portal. When Peter peaked in, his heart did a somersault in his chest. Although he expected to see his lover and former partner, the reality still stole his breath away. Neal was seated in a brocaded wingchair beside a neatly made bed. He was attired in blue scrubs and looked well cared for. His hair was trimmed and combed, and the scrubs still maintained a crease from being pressed. He was eerily still and Peter had to strain to make out the very slow rise and fall of his chest. His eyes were open and fixed on a distant spot on the wall in front of him. The agent’s hand automatically closed on the doorknob, but his guide placed his own on top of Peter’s.

     “That’s Neal. Without a doubt, that’s my …….. cousin,” the disguised FBI man said when he had found his voice. “I need to go in there and talk to him.”

     The older man smiled, but still stayed Peter’s hand. “I am so happy that we now have an identity for our patient, and that you finally have found him as well. However, before any reunions take place, we need to talk back in my office. There is much that you will need to know, and some decisions that you will now have to make.”

     Hesitantly, Peter allowed himself to be guided back along their previous route to Dr. Wellington’s office. Patience needed to be the order of the day, he reasoned—baby steps! He could do this even though the blood was rushing in his ears and he suspected that his hands were shaking. Peter almost wanted to scream in frustration when the psychiatrist graciously offered him a choice of coffee, tea, or water as he settled into an upholstered chair. Peter declined, and they finally got down to the nitty gritty.

     “As the chief administrator of this facility, as well as one of its psychiatric doctors, I insist on being the intake physician on all new admissions that come through our doors. I pride myself on being hands on and familiar with every patient who is staying with us during their treatment.

     Approximately two months ago, I was contacted by an official from a government agency telling me that they were delivering a patient to us for treatment. I have been at this institution for over fifteen years, and have been aware of this particular branch of the government’s penchant for dropping an ailing member of their team on our doorstep. Most are suffering the effects of the stresses that their jobs entail—in short, PTSD. We do the best that we can and don’t ask too many questions because we have come to expect that not too much information will be shared from their superiors. Such was the case involving your cousin.

     ‘Neal’ came to us in a catatonic state. Please bear with me if I sound pedantic, but sometimes lay people do not have an in-depth and clear picture of psychiatric issues. Catatonia, or disambiguation, as it is sometimes referred to, is a state of neurogenic motor immobility and a behavioral anomaly manifested by stupor. The patient simply freezes and shuts down, blocking out the entire real world. It was recognized as a mental disorder as early as 1874 by the physician Karl Ludwig Kahlbaum. As the science of psychiatry has evolved since then, we have come to realize that catatonia is not a mental disorder in itself, but rather a symptom of an underlying disorder such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, or depression. It can even occur after drug overdoses or metabolic imbalances. Do you have any questions so far, Mr. Burke?”

     Peter appreciated this man’s thoroughness, but wished that he would just get on with it.

     “Alright, but please stop me if there is something that you don’t understand,” the affable gentleman continued.

     “There are degrees of catatonia, and when Neal first arrived, he was literally unmoving and unresponsive to any sort of stimuli. We could not break through the barrier in his mind, and his continued physiologic health was at risk. It was necessary to insert a nasogastric tube to administer fluids and high calorie nourishment during those early days. Thankfully, things have improved from that deep level of unresponsiveness, and he now, most times, will eat and drink when food is placed in front of him. He will comply with simple commands as long as he is able to carry them out at his own pace. We have learned not to push, and let him proceed when he is ready.”

     When Peter just continued his silence, the doctor went on with the narrative. “We have also become aware of other peculiarities that Neal has manifested. He does not tolerate being touched, refuses to make eye contact, and has not uttered a word since his admission to our facility. I know that there is no damage to his vocal chords because he does have almost constant nightmares and cries out unintelligible things in his tortured sleep. We have found that a dim nightlight and soft music seems to make his nights a bit more restful.”

     Peter now had a question. “How do you know that he doesn’t have physical injuries that don’t show if you can’t touch him to perform a thorough examination?”

     “That’s an insightful question, Mr. Burke. I’m glad that you asked so that we can discuss that issue.”

     Peter thought that the Colonel Sanders look-alike sounded like a stereotypical shrink, but maybe he was being too harsh on the man. He would withhold judgment until he had more information.

     “We did a thorough work-up on Neal when he first arrived. As he was immobile at that time, it was not a problem getting x-rays, EKGs, EEGs or drawing blood. Everything checked out as normal and there were no signs of chemical imbalances or foreign substances in his blood. The answer to Neal’s problem appears to be locked deep within his brain. Of course, we continue to check his physical state, but that is now problematic. He reacts violently if anyone approaches him with a stethoscope, a tourniquet, or something as benign as a clipboard. We have to restrain him and administer an injection of Lorazepam to calm him down enough for someone to get near enough for an examination.”

     “He becomes violent?” Peter had a hard time envisioning Neal trying to hurt another person.

     “Perhaps that is a poor choice of words,” the psychiatrist backpedaled. “He becomes agitated and distressed and tries to flee. He has never lashed out at anyone with malice. I have seen him literally try to climb a wall when he is backed into a corner.

     So, you see, at this juncture, I am a bit at sea. The use of benzodiazepines, like Lorazepam, has been shown to be therapeutic in the literature, but I am loathe to prescribe constant high dosages of sedation. While keeping him calm, it may actually impede any progress. Likewise, the use of another classification of drugs in our arsenal—antipsychotics—have essentially been proven to be detrimental and worsen the catatonia in a lot of documented cases. Without more insight into the root of the patient’s problem, I am quite hesitant to make matters worse.”

     Peter knew the exact root of Neal’s problem, but his hands were tied behind his back when it came to enlightening the psychiatrist. If he breathed one word of the government debacle, he was sure that the CIA would block any of his continuing attempts to see his former CI, and he wouldn’t take that risk. Instead, he tried to do an end-around.

     “Well,” he began tentatively, wending his way through a minefield, “I don’t recall any of our now deceased relatives mentioning anything about a mental disorder like schizophrenia or bipolar problems in his history. All that they ever mentioned in passing was that he was raised by a single mother who was less than invested in her child’s welfare. There were no whispers of abuse, either physical or sexual. So, perhaps something happened to him when he came East, something so overwhelming that he found that he just couldn’t deal with that reality and retreated into a self-defensive shell.”

     The psychiatrist scanned Peter’s face shrewdly, and the agent wondered if he had pled his case too earnestly.

     “I see,” was all that the shrink said initially, but after musing in silent thought for several seconds, he added more to the conversation. “I had thought about the use of electroconvulsive therapy or ECT as an adjunct to Neal’s regimen, but perhaps that is a bit premature. Maybe we should give Neal a bit more time before doing something so invasive, since he has shown some progress. Maybe your appearance will make a difference one way or the other.”

     Peter breathed a sigh of relief at dodging that bullet for Neal. The thought of scrambling the neurons in the young man’s brain was repulsive, even though the erudite agent was aware that it was accepted standard treatment in the psychiatric world and had helped a lot of people. He also knew that one of the side effects was memory loss, and didn’t Neal have enough problems now with forgetting who he was?

     Finally, the lecture seemed to have come to a natural end, and Dr. Wellington suggested that they should return to Neal’s room. Peter’s nerves were strung as taut as piano wires, and his palms were sweaty. He took a deep breath when the physician pushed open the door and allowed Peter to precede him into the room. Wellington gave the nervous agent a slight nod and stood back, a neutral observer of the drama that may have been about to unfold.

     Neal remained in the same position as when Peter last saw him. Although erect in the chair, his posture seemed relaxed. Slowly Peter moved into his field of view and softly said his name. Absolutely nothing happened.

     “Neal, it’s Peter. I’ve finally managed to track you down, Buddy,” he said a bit louder. “I can’t tell you how glad and relieved I am to finally see you.”

     Peter, mindful of the psychiatrist’s warning about giving Neal his space, had stood a few paces in front of his friend. Neal’s silent, straight-ahead, eerie stare never wavered. Finally, in frustration, Peter crouched in front of Neal at eyelevel and repeated his name softly. It was unnerving to look into Neal’s ocean blue eyes and see only vast emptiness.

     “Neal, please tell me that you hear me. Come on, Buddy, give me some sort of sign that you know that I am here,” Peter pleaded.

     There was not a flicker of recognition, but something else began to happen. Neal’s posture slowly became more rigid. His hands inexplicably tightened on the arms of the chair, and he began to exhibit fine tremors across his body. The shaking was in the process of accelerating when Dr. Wellington quickly pulled Peter up from his crouch and nudged him back towards the door. Unnoticed by Peter, who had focused all of his attention on his former partner, the doctor had pushed a button on his phone. A tall, well-muscled orderly dressed in white appeared, seemingly out of thin air.

     “Come, Mr. Burke,” the very calm physician urged gently, “I believe that is enough for a first encounter. Patrick, one of our associates, will stay with Neal until he calms down, and a nurse will administer sedation if that becomes necessary. Neal will be in good hands, I assure you.”

     There was nothing that a bewildered Peter could do but fall in step beside the doctor. So preoccupied with the scenario that he had just witnessed, it took a minute before he realized that they were now standing outside on the wide, open veranda at the hospital’s entrance.

     “I thought perhaps you could do with a bit of fresh air,” the sympathetic administrator said softly. “Come and sit. We will talk here rather than in the rigid confines of my office. This is so much more conducive to relaxing, and right now, I believe that you need to decompress a bit.”

     Peter finally found his voice. “I really didn’t know what I expected when I walked into that room. I know that you warned me that he was mute and unresponsive, and he was exactly that. But I never expected ………” The distraught man could not finish the sentence.

     “Actually, Mr. Burke, your observation is not entirely accurate. Neal was not completely unresponsive; he most definitely reacted to your presence.”

     “Responsive—reactive—you can call it anything that you like. But what I saw in there was a man that I care deeply about who acted deathly afraid of me!” Peter was devastated and knew no other way to explain his pain.

     “Mr. Burke,” the doctor began quietly, “this first meeting was a shock to you, and I am sure that it was also a shock for Neal, even though he appears not to have recognized you. He has recoiled from staff members before when he is approached, but this is the first time that he has exhibited this type of response. Somewhere in his brain, an emotion was triggered. It may not be an appropriate emotion, but he will need time to process the experience, and perhaps put it in the proper perspective. I believe this will eventually be a positive step forward. If you do truly care about him, then don’t throw in the towel just yet. Hang in for the long haul, if that is at all possible in your situation. I have no idea as to the kind of commitments on your plate at this time.”

     Peter had managed to get his emotions under control. He gave the physician a hard stare. “I’m here for the duration. Neal has always been a challenge,” he murmured, “and I have always been the one to find him and bring him back into the fold. So, yeah, I’m all in for as long as it takes!”


	3. Chapter 3

     The psychiatrist remained seated in a rocking chair on the mansion’s veranda. He slowly propelled the chair back and forth at a gentle pace. Rocking was such a soothing motion. That was probably why babies were comforted by it, and trustingly molded their little bodies to whomever was holding them. The doctor had seen distressed adults, as well, wrap their arms around themselves and rock back and forth seeking that feeling of safety and solace. Distraught humans tended to utilize anything that could help them get through the traumas of their life.

     Dr. Wellington watched the man who had just left walk back to his car in the driveway. That man had experienced a trauma, and the doctor wondered how he would deal with it. The visitor’s shoulders sagged and his pace was sluggish. Right now, he epitomized a picture that the psychiatrist would have entitled, “A Portrait of Dejection.” Wellington certainly understood those feelings, and was astute enough to realize why there was such a great depth of sorrow. Even if Mr. Burke had not inadvertently let slip that he cared deeply for the catatonic patient who had now become "Neal," his reaction today spoke volumes. There was a definite bond between the two. Neal Cavanaugh was certainly more than a distant cousin, and the doctor found himself indulging in a little speculation. Mr. Burke was too young to be Neal’s father; perhaps he was an older brother, perhaps a lover. Nevertheless, there was definitely something there. Time would tell how strong that bond was.

     The psychiatrist sincerely hoped that this newest patient in their little community would eventually find his way back. However, he had been doing this work for all of his adult life, and was not one to delude himself. Some patients never got better. He had seen hundreds of disturbed individuals over the course of his career, and like any good physician, he had tried to maintain a therapeutic distance. That was good for the client and good for the practitioner. Doctors, no matter what their specialty—surgery, pediatrics, obstetrics, oncology—had to grow a self-protective armor around their hearts. They lost patients all the time, and they couldn’t keep losing a little part of themselves each time as well.

     Dr. Wellington smiled to himself. Doctors were notorious for not taking their own advice. There was always one patient, at some point in time, who managed to find a chink in your armor and wiggle their way past your defenses directly to your heart. Neal was that patient, and that is why Wellington was so invested in his care. The gentle, tortured young man just made you feel the overwhelming desire to protect him, and to solve his mysteries. However, it wasn’t the enigma surrounding his sudden appearance that needed to be puzzled out. There was no obscurity there; the psychiatrist was quite familiar with that little drill.

     Fifteen years ago, the doctor had been approached by a government employee in a three-piece suit, who flashed credentials bearing those infamous initials. He informed the physician, rather ominously, that they had been investigating him. At the time, the psychiatrist had a thriving practice in Washington DC. He enjoyed his vocation, and was always available to his clients if a crisis arose. There were no malpractice lawsuits pending against him, and Wellington liked to think that he displayed integrity as well as compassion in his work. He lived modestly, paid his taxes, and even had three well-behaved children’s pictures in his wallet. He could not understand what they wanted with him!

     What they wanted was really quite simple. They offered him an extraordinary position as the head administrator of an impressive private psychiatric facility in a neighboring state. The salary that came along with the offer was more than substantial, as was the autonomy that would be his to oversee the operation of the establishment. He could continue to treat patients—in fact, they insisted that he, and he alone, would treat certain patients. He would employ ultimate discretion and confidentiality during their stays. Those poor souls would arrive sporadically and unexpectedly, with literally no background information except for a name. Wellington knew that these men were casualties from a field of battle as dangerous as any found in the Middle East. They were the fallen warriors that comrades in arms had pulled back from the brink of destruction, the damaged ones who needed a sanctuary. Wellington sometimes thought that the Mansfield Institute should be called “The Island of the Misfit and Broken Toys.”

     These walking wounded were sometimes amenable to treatment, and sometimes not. They sometimes talked of their experiences in the field, and sometimes not. When they finally were able to leave, their records went with them, and it was as if they never existed. One thing, however, never changed. While they were patients, they had no visitors—ever. Someone dropped them off and, down the road, picked them up when they were ready to leave. There were never any “cousins” or other relatives who suddenly showed up out of the blue. Why was Neal different? He obviously had some connection to the “Company.” After all, they were the ones who initially brought him to the Institute, and they were paying his bills. If he wasn’t a former agent, was he collateral damage? Why were his whereabouts leaked to an outsider? The doctor sighed and gave himself some sage advice, sort of an amalgamation of the Hippocratic Oath and Virgil: “Do no harm while unveiling the mystery.”

**********

     Peter was despondent and confused as he drove away from the Mansfield Institute. He should have been euphoric. He had seen his former partner in the flesh with his own eyes, but now he had more questions than answers. Why would Neal be afraid of him? What had gotten twisted up in his mind? Peter had meant every word that he said to the psychiatrist. He was in for the long haul. He wanted his friend and his lover back!

     The FBI agent took a room at a nearby value-priced motel and made the daily trek to the sanitarium. Most times, he would find Neal in his room, and he would take a seat a good ten feet away and begin to talk to the ghost who was his former CI. He would reminisce about the myriad of cases that they had worked and solved. He’d mention June, and tell Neal how his loft was now a memorial preserved in amber. Not a thing had been touched, as June anxiously awaited his return. He also spoke of Mozzie and the steadfast faith that the little bald man had that Neal was alive and trying to find his way back. Peter thought it ironic that the pint-sized conspiracy theorist had, for once, been vindicated and his paranoia warranted. If only he knew! Peter talked of so many things that had a connection to Neal’s former life in New York, but there was not a flicker of recognition in Neal’s vacant blue eyes.

     On a rare occasion, he would find the small bedroom empty, and Peter’s heart would lodge in his throat as he searched until he located the one that he loved. Once he had tracked the young man, dressed in jeans, tee shirt, and sneakers, to a solarium. An older woman was seated at a grand piano playing Mozart, and Neal listened intently, seemingly enraptured by the haunting strains.

     As the weather improved, Peter would sometimes find Neal in a wicker chair on the front veranda. His gaze was always directed somewhere near the horizon, and he never acknowledged Peter as he walked up the steps. The agent was surprised that the patients were allowed such freedom, but then he noticed the familiar orderly just inside the vestibule. Peter had noted each time that he visited that there was always a sturdily built chaperone hovering nearby. When he was seated in Neal’s room, they stood just outside the door. When Neal wandered into a different area of the mansion, they blended into the background, but, nonetheless, their presence was obvious to Peter. After that initial encounter when Neal exhibited fear in Peter’s presence, the agent wondered if their mandate was to protect their charge from him.

     Three weeks into the daily routine, Neal was again seated on the veranda when Peter arrived. Dr. Wellington, who seemed to be the young man’s primary therapist, was seated beside him. The psychiatrist welcomed Peter warmly, and suggested that perhaps it might be pleasant to take a little stroll around the grounds and soak up some of the gorgeous summer sunshine. He made this suggestion to Neal as well, who, surprisingly, rose and silently fell in step as the three began their walk around the spacious property. Peter noted that after awhile, the doctor innocuously lagged a little behind so that Peter and Neal were now in step, side by side. Peter didn’t dare speak or look at Neal. He was afraid to upset the fragile moment; he was just happy to be that close without the young man freaking out.

     Down near the bottom of the spacious lawn, there was a slight gully. A small, wooden bridge arched over a “stream” of blue-flowering ice plant that gave the illusion of rippling water. Mature white rosebushes, in full bloom, flanked the banks, making a lovely floral vista to delight the eye and lay testament to the wondrous beauty of nature. Of course, in order to achieve this splendor, nature had to provide pollinators, so a brigade of bees was busy at their appointed task. Without warning, one little creature took umbrage with the interlopers and flew onto Peter’s arm. The startled agent felt the sting, and immediately raised his arm to slap at the culprit. The flat of his hand on the bare skin of his forearm made a very distinct sound. Neal jerked as if he had been the one who was slapped. He gave an anguished yelp, instinctively vaulted over the bridge’s railing, and took off like a shot towards the distant woodland.

     When Peter recovered from hearing the distressed cry and Neal’s abrupt departure, he left the psychiatrist behind as he gave chase. Neal was fast, but had been leading a sedentary life for quite awhile, and his speed was a poor match for Peter’s adrenalin-driven, determined strides. The FBI agent was able to execute a flying tackle to Neal’s midsection just before he reached the woods. He wound up sitting across the young man’s hips while he tried to capture his flailing arms. Neal was like a demon beneath him, thrashing and pushing at Peter and yelling “Get off of me!” at the top of his lungs. Peter hung on for dear life, not quite sure what else to do.

     Thankfully, an orderly appeared in a matter of seconds and helped to hold Neal down until a nurse arrived with a syringe. It took about ten minutes for the fight to go out of the captive. Dr. Wellington had knelt by his patient’s side the entire time murmuring soothing and comforting words. Finally, the drama subsided, and the orderly half-carried Neal back to his room in the mansion where he arranged him gently onto the bed. Peter was part of the little entourage to return, but now he hung back outside of Neal’s door feeling guilty for causing the chaos. He knew that he had probably set back Neal’s progress and recovery. Neal was afraid of him, and Peter’s actions today had most likely reinforced that feeling of fear.

     “I’m sorry,” he told the psychiatrist, forcing the words past a dry throat. “I think that I am doing more harm than good here, so I’ll just go.”

     “Quite the contrary, Mr. Burke,” the doctor said with a wry smile. “You have managed to elicit a very dramatic response from Neal, and that, I think, is progress. He’s calm now and should fall asleep very soon. Why don’t you sit with him so that he is not alone?”

     Reluctantly, Peter edged into the small room. As was his usual habit, he perched on a chair by the wall, but still directly in Neal’s line of sight. The sedative was working its magic, and Neal’s limbs were relaxed and his eyelids drooped. He worked hard to fight the sensation, but it was a losing battle. Right before finally giving in to defeat, he focused on Peter’s face and peered at him with narrowed eyes. This time there was no vacant stare. This time there was emotion in those eyes and, to Peter, it looked like hatred!

     The older man felt as if someone had punched him in the solar plexus and robbed him of his breath. That look cut into his heart as brutally as a machete. He closed his own eyes and stayed rooted to the chair for another fifteen minutes. He decided, at that moment, that he had to stay away because he was causing havoc in what should have been a gentle, nurturing process. He just couldn’t do this anymore.

     In quiet defeat, he moved the chair beside Neal’s bed and sat down. He looked at the man who had once been his loving soulmate, and a sad little smile played at his lips. Neal finally looked at peace, even if that serenity was artificially induced. Peter reached out and gently brushed the wayward strands of hair from the young man’s forehead. He ran his thumb across a chiseled cheekbone and down a sculptured jaw. Finally, he took one of Neal’s lax hands between his and stroked the long fingers, finally entwining them with his own. He sat like that for an hour, just touching and stroking and willing his strength into the other man. “Please come back to me, Neal,” he murmured miserably.

     Peter was not sure when Dr. Wellington had come into the room. The carpet had masked his footsteps, but suddenly he was just standing there.

     “You love him very much, don’t you,” he asked softly, although it was more of a statement than a question.

     “Yeah …. I do, with all my heart,” Peter answered honestly. What was the point in subterfuge now? It was all coming to an end. He just couldn’t do this to Neal anymore.

     “That’s a good thing because it will be your love that eventually saves him,” the psychiatrist replied.

     Peter looked up sardonically. “I think there is a conundrum in your theory, Doctor. My love cannot help Neal because he hates me. I have known him for a long time and can interpret every expression, every look, and every nuance. I know every one of his tells, so when I say that he hates me, you can take that to the bank! I certainly don’t understand why, but then ignorance isn’t going to solve the problem. I most likely will be leaving town tomorrow, although I’ll give my contact information to you, and I’ll certainly check in regularly.”

     Without asking permission, the psychiatrist perched on the end of Neal’s bed so that he was facing Peter. Neal was dead to the world and didn’t move a muscle when the mattress suddenly shifted under the doctor’s weight.

     “Love and hate are two very strong emotions—actually two sides of the same coin. Sometimes, when we feel deeply, we vacillate back and forth between the two, or paradoxically, feel both emotions at the same time. The important thing in this case is that Neal is finally allowing himself to feel strong emotions. They may be mixed up in his head right now, but they are pushing him up and out of that deep darkness where he has been hiding. For a very long time, he has had to protect himself by not feeling anything. I don’t need a crystal ball, or the expertise of all the educational diplomas on my wall, to know that he has been a victim, and most likely has seen the depravity and inhumanity of hell. The only way that he could survive was to stop feeling. Now our job is to allow him to embrace a sense of well-being so that he can once again experience emotion, be it love, hate, or anything in between. He needs you, Peter.”

     That was the first time that the man had called Peter by his first name. Perhaps the doctor wanted him to feel as if they were comrades in arms in this crusade to save Neal. The man never explained his motives. He just slid from his perch on the side of the bed, clasped Peter gently on the shoulder, and left as quietly as he had come. Suddenly, Peter knew that he would be returning the next day.


	4. Chapter 4

     The weeks began to add up, and Peter had moved to a chain hotel that specialized in long-term stays. He had almost exhausted the leave and vacation monies in his federal work package, but was determined to take a position at a neighborhood hardware store, if necessary, so that he could remain nearby. He had the occasional call from a concerned co-worker at the White Collar office inquiring about his return, and he adroitly fielded their subtle inquiries, tap-dancing around a truth that he, himself, did not know from day to day. However, one afternoon, he received a call from his immediate superior, who was less circumspect and tactful. Hughes, like a greyhound pursuing a rabbit, got right to the point and focused on the dilemma.

     “I know that Caffrey’s disappearance was upsetting to you, Peter. I get that, but you can’t let disappointments de-rail your career.”

     “Reese, I know that you are worried about me,” Peter tried to placate the older man whom he considered a friend. The wily, old codger had known Peter since his first days as a green but determined field agent. Sometimes, Peter thought that the insightful man had figured out his subordinate’s less-than-professional relationship with his handsome, young CI. He had waited for the official reprimand regarding the inappropriate use of his authority over Neal, but, much to his surprise, it never came.

     “Peter,” his mentor continued, “sometimes people are not who we think they are, and that scares us and hurts like hell. I suspect that this sudden leave of absence is all about that issue. Perhaps you should see someone to try to work this out in your mind. If you don’t want to officially request the services of the FBI’s resident shrink, I can give you the name of a private counselor that I have seen in the past.”

     “Thanks, Reese, I appreciate your concern. Actually, I am currently seeing a psychiatrist about those very ‘issues,’” Peter reassured his boss.

     It wasn’t a lie. Peter actually met with Dr. Wellington on a regular basis to talk about Neal. Since that was privileged communication, Hughes did not need to know the substance of it. Those long talks in the therapist’s office were more along the lines of a fact-finding mission, with the psychiatrist apprising Peter of his friend’s progress. Thankfully, there had been progress.

     “Neal is actually beginning to talk to me during his sessions,” Dr. Wellington reported. “He has admitted that he remembers nothing about what precipitated his being found catatonic on a DC street. Unfortunately, he also cannot recall the life that he led before that occurrence.”

     “But what he can recall,” Peter said morosely, “is that he fears and hates me, and that definitely was not how it was during those days that he can’t remember!”

     Uncannily, the psychiatrist parroted the exact words that Hughes had used during his concerned phone call. “Sometimes, people are not who we think they are.”

     When Peter gazed at the man with troubled eyes, the doctor continued. “There is no doubt in my mind that you were an important and powerful figure in Neal’s past history, but right now he possesses no timeline in his memories. He just has vague impressions that prompt strong emotions to take hold, impressions that he can’t yet process. Please try to sustain the hope that he will realize that you are not the person that he thinks you are, and eventually finds the rightful place where you do fit in. When he can visualize your relationship in its proper context, then he will be well on his way to a recovery.”

     Peter had to admit that Neal seemed to be getting better. It was a rare occasion when Peter would find him hunkered down in his room in baggy scrubs. Now, most times, he was out and about, actually participating in activities. Sometimes he would be in the spacious and sunny day room engaged in a game of chess with another patient or a member of the staff. Other times, he would be in an adjacent area of the mansion designated as a type of workshop. An easel would be set up, and the former artist would be putting paint to canvases that were dark and disturbing. Violent slashes of black, deep purple and garish red were unsettling to view, and it didn’t take a shrink to understand the pathos that they represented.

     Unfortunately, Neal still gave Peter a wide berth, never allowing the distance between them to narrow. Thankfully, the thousand-yard stare was gone most of the time. Every now and then, Peter would catch Neal sliding sideways glances in his direction that usually looked wary, but at other times, these quick looks seemed—well—perplexed, for lack of a better term. At this point, Peter couldn’t be sure that he was reading his former partner correctly. If Peter asked Neal a direct question, the most that he would get was a one-word answer delivered like a surly teenager. This was uncharted territory that both men were slogging through at a snail’s pace, and it was extremely frustrating for the dynamic, take-charge agent.

     To use a cop metaphor, a break in the case occurred in a most obtuse and unexpected way. Peter had just finished a discussion with Dr. Wellington early one morning, and the two men were walking, side by side, down the corridor to the patients’ rooms.

     “I’ll just stop in for a minute to say ‘Hi’ to Neal before I make my rounds,” the physician remarked. “I’m not due to see him until tomorrow, but I always like to take the time to touch base with every one of our clients each day. I guess you’ll just have to consider my obsessive-compulsive behavior as a little nod to being psychologically eccentric.” The amiable man felt secure in poking fun at himself, and Peter was glad that this was the man who was trying to help Neal.

     Peter turned back from facing the doctor and energetically pushed Neal’s door open without first taking the time to look through the small window. The door swung inward and crashed into Neal, who had been about to exit from the other side. The unexpected force sent the young man sprawling to the floor, and when he looked up and saw Peter, it didn’t take a fortuneteller to interpret his expression of shock and sheer terror.

     Peter, with fervent apologies falling from his lips, immediately charged into the room like a bull in a china shop to help Neal up. The young man didn’t appear to hear the words, and scuttled backwards across the floor away from Peter’s hasty advance until the wall stopped his retreat. Peter pursued him, dropping down in a crouch before the frightened man. Spontaneously, without thought, a distressed Peter placed his hands on Neal’s shoulders. That was definitely the wrong thing to do, because Neal instantly tried to push himself upward in an attempt to bolt from the room.

     “Oh no! No you don’t—not this time! You’re not running away again!” Peter was stridently emphatic, as all of his frustration and feelings of helplessness during the long weeks spewed out.

     With a quick twist of his body, Peter sat down on the floor, his arms instinctively encircling Neal’s torso. He had effectively trapped the shaking man in an iron grip. When a violently struggling Neal found that he could not break free, he began brutally smashing his head against the adjacent, unyielding, wooden chest of drawers.

     “ ** _Stop!_** ” Peter bellowed in a panic. His loud and unexpected outburst reverberated within the room, catching everyone unaware. The tableau suddenly became unnaturally quiet, and time seemed frozen in that moment.

     “Just please, please stop,” he finally whispered forlornly. Then his tight grasp around his captive loosened a bit, and one hand came up to gently cradle Neal’s head. Without warning, great gut-wrenching sobs burst from Peter’s lips and didn’t stop as a torrent of tears gushed from his eyes. Even though a meltdown was occurring, he continued to embrace the tense, rigid man in his arms. The stouthearted and proud man, who had finally reached his breaking point, began to slowly rock both of them back and forth as his own anguished weeping continued.

     Dr. Wellington watched from the open doorway in clinical fascination. The loud yelling had brought an orderly and nurse quickly to his side, but he motioned them away. As dramatic as the scene appeared, the psychiatrist wanted to see how it would all play out. Somehow, he didn’t think that brawn or sedation would ultimately be necessary.

     Much to his satisfaction, a hoped-for metamorphosis was taking place before his eyes. The stiffness in Neal was slowly giving way, and inch by inch, his body was melting into Peter’s. His dark head came to rest on the bigger man’s chest, and a hand crept up to grip the agent’s shirt. His other arm encircled Peter’s broad back and gradually stole upwards to begin stroking soft circles between his shoulder blades. Dr. Wellington smiled because it was now impossible to distinguish who was comforting whom. Regardless, the therapist knew that he was witnessing the welcome beginning of healing for both men. He sighed contentedly, silently moving away and leaving them to work through the process.

     Peter and Neal stayed entwined while they gently rocked back and forth. When Peter’s emotional outburst ran its course, Neal looked up at Peter. This time, there was no panic in his clear, questioning eyes.

     “Why were you crying?” he asked tentatively.

     Peter took a deep, cleansing breath, and his red-rimmed eyes met Neal’s. “I was crying because you were hurting, and when you hurt, so do I. I love you, Neal, and I never wanted to cause you to feel fear or pain—ever,” he added vehemently.

     “I think that I get that now,” the young man finally admitted. “I don’t want you to be upset because of me. I don’t know what I can do to fix it, but maybe you can tell me what I need to do to at least try.”

     This was the longest conversation that Neal had had with Peter since before he was abducted.

     “Just trust me, Neal, just trust me,” Peter breathed.

**********

     The next day when Peter met with Dr. Wellington, the physician was only too glad to share his pleasure with the FBI agent. “You, my friend, were the catalyst that brought about this momentous milestone,” he enthused.

     “But Neal still doesn’t remember anything,” Peter objected. “He’s trusting me on blind faith.”

     “Ah, but that’s where you are wrong. He is trusting you because his heart is telling him that it is safe to do so. Regardless of those old, tired clichés to the contrary, the heart is anything but blind. He is once again relying on innate instinct, and that is a good thing because that means that he is getting stronger. Hopefully, now he will begin to trust more of his instincts, and that will lead to more breakthroughs. Be happy, Peter, this is real progress.”

     Then the psychiatrist made a bold suggestion. “I know that you are staying in a nearby motel, Peter. What are your feelings about taking Neal home with you for an overnight stay? As his primary therapist, I can make that happen, if that is a scenario that you would like to try.”

     “But what if he decides to run,” Peter asked anxiously.

     “Oh, I think that you probably have the wherewithal to make sure that he stays in one place. I am sensing that you may have seen to that in the past. Am I wrong?” The physician had raised his eyebrows innocently, and for a second, Peter wondered just how much information that the doctor had guessed about their relationship.

     “What does Neal say about this?” Peter passed the buck.

   “I haven’t discussed it with him yet. I thought that perhaps you may want to do that.” The buck had now been passed right back to Peter.

     “Okay … sure. I can do that,” Peter stated with more conviction than he felt. It was now plain that he had to put up or shut up!

     Peter encouraged Neal to take a walk with him outside that afternoon. Hesitantly, he posed the question of an overnight furlough to Neal, all the while studying his partner’s face intently for any signs of panic or distress. Neal stopped mid-stride and turned to face him, cocking his head to the side.

     “We had some kind of relationship in the life that I can’t remember, didn’t we,” he said slowly.

     “Yeah, sure, like I told you when I first got here, we worked together in New York for three years,” Peter glibly sidestepped the explosive mine buried in the peaceful field.

     “Well, whatever you said in those early days got all muddled in my mind,” Neal admitted. “I actually can’t remember much of anything during that time.”

    “Fair enough,” Peter equivocated and then sought to clarify. “We were partners who worked together, side by side, sometimes for very long hours, and we were close.”

     Neal mulled all of this over for a few minutes as he resumed his leisurely stroll. “Okay,” he finally said. “Although this place is beautiful, I wouldn’t mind a brief change of scenery.”

     With the decision made, Peter took Neal out to dinner that night at a local diner, and then back to the “Extended Stay Inn” where his small suite was located. Every few minutes, his fingers closed around the card in his pocket containing Dr. Wellington’s personal emergency phone number.

     Much to Peter’s relief, Neal remained docile and calm when they entered Peter’s miniscule efficiency apartment. The young man looked around curiously at the small living space, and the even tinier kitchenette. When he ducked his head into the solitary bedroom, his brow wrinkled as he remarked, “There’s only one bed, Peter.”

     “Yeah,” the older man agreed, “but the sofa is a fold out, so I can sleep there tonight.”

     “I don’t want to kick you out of your own bed, Peter. I can sleep on the couch,” Neal argued. Then it was as if a light went on behind his blue eyes.

     “Oh, yeah, I get it now. You don’t want me sleeping so close to the front door in case I decide to wander. You want me all tucked in behind a closed door while you remain on sentry duty at the drawbridge.” There was a tinge of hurt behind those words.

     “No, Neal, no!” Peter protested. “That’s not how it is.”

     Finally, Peter decided that it was time for the truth. “What I really want, Neal, is to be lying right beside you in that bed.”

     A small smile played at the corner of Neal’s mouth. “So, that’s how it was between us?” he asked.

    “Yeah,” Peter acknowledged, “that’s how it was between us.”

     “Well then,” Neal retorted flippantly, “let’s keep things as they should be so that we don’t upset the crazy person in the room!”

     Neal sauntered slowly into the room containing a queen-sized bed; Peter was right on his heels. The agent lit the soft bedroom lamp, and turned to see Neal staring up at him trustingly. Peter, ever-so-slowly, fumbled with the buttons on Neal’s cotton shirt, finally sliding it from his shoulders and letting it drift to the floor. He carefully placed a hand on the side of the younger man’s neck and caressed the soft skin, letting his thumb scrap along Neal’s jawline. Meeting no resistance, he slowly pulled his partner closer and delicately placed a chaste kiss on slightly parted lips. Then he allowed his hands to begin wandering over Neal’s warm skin, down his shoulder blades, onto the contour of his spine, and finally down to the slight hollow at the small of his back. His next kiss was open-mouthed and hungry, and Neal’s tongue tangled with his as they both were caught up in the passion of erotic exploration.

     The dance continued as Peter walked Neal backwards until the mattress met the backs of his thighs. Supporting the smaller man, Peter lowered him down, never losing contact with his lips. Leaning over his supine lover, Peter ran his hands down sculptured pectorals and a flat abdomen. His mouth followed, knowing from experience what Neal liked, and where his hot buttons were. With Neal now as sexually aroused as Peter, the agent unbuttoned his partner’s fly and lowered the zipper. Neal toed off his shoes and instinctively raised his hips so that Peter could pull off his chinos and briefs. Peter quickly shucked his own clothes and lay down beside him.

     Peter had always been the dominant partner in their sexual endeavors, but now he wasn’t sure how much power he should exert. It was familiar territory, and yet it wasn’t, so he took it exceedingly slow, stroking and sucking and tantalizing. Neal arched up into him and panted imploringly, “Fuck me, Peter.”

     Peter pulled back, his own gaze hot and smoldering. “Neal, I didn’t plan for this. I don’t have condoms or lubricant.”

     “Doesn’t matter, Peter. I want you inside of me. I want to feel your hot cum inside of me. Please, Peter, if I can feel, then this is real, and I’m still alive.”

     That plea brought tears to Peter’s eyes, and he dared to hold Neal a little tighter against him. “This is real, Neal; we’re real and we always will be!”

     Using his own saliva, Peter began to coax Neal’s orifice open. He stretched him, carefully and slowly, as the young man moaned and writhed under him. He massaged the prostate until Neal was grasping Peter’s cock and begging, “Please now, please, please.”

   The older man positioned himself between Neal’s thighs as his partner bent his knees to accommodate his girth. Drawing on reserves that he didn’t know he possessed, Peter refrained from plunging headlong into his lover. Gradually, the head of his cock dilated the hole and edged in little by little. When he was seated up to his balls, he began to rut in earnest. Neal’s eyes were open and they never left Peter’s as the tempo increased, bringing guttural sounds of pleasure from both partners. Neal came first with explosive jets of cum that settled hotly between their slick bodies. Feeling the spasms of Neal’s orgasm grip his own cock, Peter came just seconds later. This is how they had been before, like two parts that needed to come together to be whole. In this fleeting moment in time, life was perfect for two lost souls.


	5. Chapter 5

     When Dr. Wellington and Peter had their next meeting, the psychiatrist remarked with a smile, “So, since I didn’t get any phone calls, I’ll take that as a good sign.”

     “Yeah,” Peter answered, “it went really well.”

     “And the sex was good?” the doctor threw out innocently.

     If Peter could see his own face, he was sure that he looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Finally, he just decided to put it all out there.

     “Yep, very good. It worked because it was so familiar, and, for just a little while, it felt like we had been transported back in time before all the shit happened.”

     “Excellent!” Wellington enthused. “We all need a bit of respite to recharge our batteries in a safe and familiar place.”

     “So, where do we go from here,” Peter wanted to know.

     “Well, we can certainly make the overnights more frequent, and even arrange for a weekend furlough if Neal is comfortable with that. Being away from an institutional environment for short periods of time may help foster a sense of autonomy in our young friend. What are your thoughts on that, Peter?”

     “That sounds like a plan, but I feel like I’m skating on thin ice here, not really sure if the bottom will suddenly crack and we’ll all go under.”

     “Can you tell me exactly what your fears are, Peter? Perhaps I can put them to rest.”

     “Well, for one thing, I’m unsure if I should ask him about what happened to him. Do you think that will set him off? I definitely do not want to cause a relapse. And should I keep reminding him of who he was before all of this happened? Should I try to fill in the voids, or are you hoping that Neal will remember on his own?”

     “Ah, so many introspective and challenging questions,” Dr. Wellington chuckled. “You have been giving this a lot of consideration, and that is a good thing. Therefore, my advice to you is to follow your heart and Neal’s lead. If he wants answers about his previous life, and pumps you for information, by all means, give him prompts so that he can try to visualize it. Those memories are probably like fragments of a dream for him. When you awaken, you know that you have dreamed and can retain some of the plot, but the rest is just out of reach. Fill in those vague areas for him until he makes them his own.

     As to the experiences that brought him here, those are his memories alone. I have always been working blind because I was not privy to that information. Somehow, I sense that you know the complete picture, and perhaps live in fear that Neal _will_ remember.”

     Peter just ducked his head and remained silent.

     “The human mind is a wonderful thing, my friend. It will try to protect us at all costs. Survival is built into our DNA. So, if that means that Neal has shoved all of those memories into a locked vault in his brain so that he can function, then that is how it must be for now. When his brain feels that he is strong enough to face them, then, and only then, will that door open. If you know him well, then you will also sense when that is happening and can help him through it and do what is necessary. If that comes to pass, no matter where he is, I will always be available if he needs me.

**********

     The overnights increased in frequency, and Peter’s worries never materialized. Neal reveled in Peter’s attention and was an avid participant in their lovemaking. His only requirement was that a soft light always remained burning through the dark hours. Peter certainly understood why, even if this quirk baffled Neal.

     Peter was thrilled when Neal took the lead at times. Being the recipient of superb blowjobs was certainly no hardship to endure, and having Neal mount him and undulate his body above Peter’s was beyond fantastic. Afterwards, Neal usually wound up draped atop Peter with his head resting over his lover’s heart. The agent’s hands would stroke rhythmically down his back and over his ass, and their breathing would become synchronized as if they were one entity.

     Peter was luxuriating in this very position one night when, from seemingly out of nowhere, Neal said, “I seem to remember that there was a dog in the house where I lived who was named after a gangster—Bugsy Siegel, I think.”

     Another time, Neal mentioned, offhandedly, that he had dreams where he looked at himself in the mirror and he was wearing a hat—a fedora, to be exact.

     “He’s starting to remember bits and pieces from his old life,” Peter told the psychiatrist one afternoon. “And it’s usually at the strangest moments. Damn if I can fathom a connection.”

     Dr. Wellington raised a questioning eyebrow.

     Peter just shrugged and looked sheepish. “It’s usually after sex,” he admitted.

     The therapist smiled. “Endorphins are wondrous things, Peter. Keep up the good work!”

     Then there came a time when Neal confided more disturbing information. The two had decided to splurge and have dinner at a nice, upscale restaurant located on the water. Over a bottle of very good wine, they watched the sun seemingly sink into the bay after providing a magnificent sunset. It had been a long time since Neal had indulged in alcohol, and perhaps it had lowered his defenses. That night, as he lay on Peter’s chest, he started to speak in a disembodied, far-away voice.

     “Did anyone ever read the story of Peter Pan to you when you were young? I remember somebody reading it to me. Maybe it was my Mom or a teacher—I can’t be sure. Well, there is a part of that story that always stuck with me. You would think that a young child would be impressed by a pirate with a hook, or a snapping crocodile. I guess I was strange, even as a kid, because it’s the part about someone stealing Peter Pan’s shadow that always scared me. I worried that somebody would sneak into my bedroom one night while I was asleep and steal a part of me away.”

     Peter stayed silent and continued his stroking while waiting. Neal finally drew a deep breath and continued. “That’s exactly what happened, Peter. I don’t know how I know, but I do. I know that my nightmare became a reality one day when something evil stole a part of me away. It stole my shadow and did awful things to it. When I first saw you, I thought that you were coming to claim the rest of me.”

     Peter realized that they had reached that area of thin ice, and asked quietly, “Why would you think I would do that, Neal?”

     Neal’s long, thin fingers had been absently tracing designs across Peter’s chest, but he stopped momentarily, as if any extraneous movement might interrupt his deep contemplation.

     “Because you were familiar somehow. I knew that we had met before, and all of my senses said ‘ _run_ ’ because you were chasing me. I also felt that you were powerful—or at least you had some kind of power over me. I know it’s crazy, but those were my first panicked impressions.”

     Peter let out the breath that he didn’t know he had been holding. “I _was_ looking for you, Neal. I would have never stopped searching for you because I love you. When you were gone, it was like a part of me had gone missing, too.”

*********

     Of course, Peter related this development to Dr. Wellington, who just nodded thoughtfully but did not comment.

     Over time, with Peter’s help, the annoying gaps of Neal’s past life were colored in, and June, Mozzie, the White Collar office, and Neal’s parole on the anklet became a reality for the con man. It was like a mental reunion of long lost relatives. However, Neal’s “real” life brought monumental quandaries to the forefront.

     “I won’t go back to New York, Peter,” Neal challenged defiantly. “They’ll put me back in prison and I just can’t do that again; it would kill me!”

     “And I can’t be responsible for that happening,” Peter reassured him just as adamantly. “Neal Caffrey has to remain MIA. I’m going back to New York and institute a few changes so that can happen.”

     Neal looked at Peter with sadness. “You’re not going to come back, are you?”

     Peter regarded Neal’s forlorn look and said firmly, “I’ll always come for you, Neal!”

**********

     Peter was gone for ten days, methodically implementing the necessary changes to a life that he was leaving behind. It was a simple matter of putting his townhouse in the hands of a respected realtor, and placing his furniture in storage. The hardest part was facing Reese Hughes when he handed in his resignation from the FBI.

     “Peter, you need to re-think this,” Hughes pleaded. “You are throwing away a potentially extraordinary career in the Agency. We need good people like you on the job. Caffrey was just a glitch that happened along the way. You can come back from this in time.”

     Peter smiled at his old friend. “I have given this a great deal of thought, Reese, and this is the only way that I can live with myself. I just cannot cavalierly write people off like dead wood from my life. Neal happened, and that’s a fact that is based on reality. It drove home the point that I need to go in a different direction where people mean something besides statistics on a spreadsheet.”

     “So what will you do? What’s this new direction that you are taking,” Hughes finally asked after his pleas fell on deaf ears.

     “I’m not quite sure yet,” Peter admitted, “but definitely a change of scene to go with my new perspective. As for a job, well, I do have a degree in accounting, so I’ll just have to see where that leads, I suppose.”

     Hughes just shook his head admitting defeat. “You will be missed, Peter.”

     “Oh, I’m sure there will be another hotshot who will be only too happy to warm that chair in my office,” Peter responded wryly. “Goodbye, Reese.”

**********

     Now Peter moved on to what he hoped would be a more pleasant part of his odyssey. He had called ahead, and both June and Mozzie were waiting in the parlor of the mansion on Riverside Drive. As succinctly as possible, he delivered the astonishing news that Neal was alive, and had been a patient in a mental hospital these last few months. He didn’t go into specifics about what had happened to the young man. He simply said that he had been abducted by someone who was experimenting with mind control. He held up a forestalling hand when Mozzie’s mouth immediately opened.

     “Don’t go there, Mozzie!” he cautioned.

     He then explained that it had taken time and intensive therapy for Neal to regain his memories. Ultimately, Peter laid out a plan for them that had June’s eyes misting over, and Mozzie’s mouth once again hanging open.

     “You’re seriously re-organizing your whole life for Neal?” Mozzie said in awe. “My God, I think that either the planets have all aligned, or the apocalypse is upon us!”

     “I think that it is pure love manifested in the most selfless way,” June frowned briefly in Mozzie’s direction. “When can we see him, Peter? We’ve missed him so much!”

     “I need to run my plan by Neal first, and get his input. If we move forward to put it in motion, it will take us awhile to find the right place to re-locate. I was thinking perhaps somewhere on the West Coast, maybe Northern California. I’d feel more comfortable having Neal a continent away from New York.”

     “Let me help with that,” June said magnanimously. “I don’t know the state of your finances, so let me give you a little something to tide you both over until you figure it all out.”

     Peter graciously declined her offer. “June, that is very generous of you, but I have a life insurance policy that I can cash in until we can support ourselves. Eventually, there also will be income from the sale of my townhome.”

     “Then consider my proposal not as a gift, but rather as a loan that you can repay whenever it is convenient. As my dear Byron used to say, ‘You take care of your own.’ Please just let me do this for you and Neal,” she pleaded.

     Mozzie then piped up with his two cents. “You know, Suit, Neal and I were not exactly living from hand to mouth. We had reserves—sort of like your life insurance policy. Our little rainy day fund is really not so little, and Neal knows that he can access it at any time. So, trust me, the two of you will not starve.”

     Peter knew that was probably a gross understatement and a discussion for another day. Ultimately, he left his two cohorts in crime later that afternoon with a promise to keep them in the loop. Then he made his way back to Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

     He showed up at the Mansfield Institute early in the evening and found Neal in his room. The look that Neal gave him was guarded and suspicious. He declined Peter’s offer to go out to dinner and then back to his small suite at the hotel.

     “Peter, I am too keyed up to eat, much less to have pillow talk later. I need to know now what you did and how it will impact me.” Neal was obviously in “fight or flight” mode.

     So, Peter indulged his nervous lover and laid it all out for him. For a few minutes, Neal was speechless and Peter began to worry. Then a fond smile made its way to his face.

     “I’ve never had anyone so willing to give up everything for me,” he said softly. “It’s kinda hard to process.”

     Peter smiled in return. “It’s just what you do for family, Neal.”

     Their lovemaking was slow and tender that night, and Peter ended up spooning behind Neal afterwards, relishing the smell and warmth of his body as he placed soft kisses to the nape of the young man’s neck. Eventually, they were both aroused once more. It was not difficult to again slide into Neal’s hot depths, and this time the pace was more fevered and intense, wringing an earth-moving climax from both of them.

     Peter fell back and needed to catch his breath. “I’m not a youngster anymore, Neal. If you decide to hang out with me for the extended life tour, I’m not sure how long I can keep up this pace!”

     Neal just teasingly mocked Peter’s warning. “You’re stuck with me through Social Security and Medicare, Dude, so don’t try to weasel out of our deal. I may have to resort to putting an anklet on you when you get old and confused and can’t find your way home!”

     The next morning, Peter met with Dr. Wellington and told him about the plan. What he really wanted was to clarify Neal’s status. Was his mental health stable enough to implement their strategy at this time?

     The psychiatrist smiled at Peter. “Neal has made enormous strides in his recovery, in no small part, due to your presence and support. It has been impressive to watch you bring him back from a very dark place into the light once again. I have always felt that I was merely an observer, and occasionally a cheerleader for you when you needed it.”

     Peter made a wry face. “Yeah, I suppose when you look at it, you were treating two patients, Doc.”

     “It has been my pleasure, Peter. I so enjoy stories with successful conclusions. I personally believe that Neal is no longer in need of my services. He is now strong enough to handle whatever life throws at him, even the buried nightmares that may re-surface. After all, he has you for back up if he runs into a snag, and me, if either of you need an ally, or a ‘cheerleader,’ in your corner.

     However, Neal’s story doesn’t have an ending yet. That will all depend on the whims of the people who first brought him here. I will have to make a very important phone call to hash that out. I will let you know the end result of that discussion tomorrow.”

     Peter knew exactly who would be on the other end of the phone when the physician made that call, and he speculated what exactly he could do if the answer was no. Worst-case scenario, he wondered if Neal’s disappearing skills were still sharp. Peter would certainly be a precocious and avid student, if it came down to that. Tomorrow suddenly could not come soon enough!

**********

     Dr. Wellington took a small card from his Rolodex filed under the innocuous name “Reliable Contractors Inc.” It bore a Washington DC area code. He dialed the number that he had many times in the past, and asked for the familiar person who had alerted him of Neal’s imminent arrival many months ago. Actually, this person had always been just a voice, a phantom he had never seen in person. The men who brought the broken patients, and ultimately retrieved them, were just emissaries doing a job for the big fish. Perhaps they did not know his identify either.

     “I’m calling in regard to ‘John Doe,’ brought here several months ago,” the doctor stated matter-of-factly. “The patient has recovered to the point that he can now recall his identity and his background. I believe him to be stable and in no danger to himself or others. What happened to cause his catatonia remains lost somewhere in his subconscious. It would be unprofessional of me to speculate if he will ever be able to retrieve that information. However, he seems content to let those lost experiences remain buried.”

     When no remarks were forthcoming, Wellington continued. “As I’m sure you are no doubt aware, he has had an almost constant companion from his past. This person appeared quite soon after the patient’s admission, was quite pivotal in his recovery, and has become invested in his future. They wish to move out of the area, well beyond the sphere of my influence, although I am quite sure not beyond yours. I’m inclined to sign off on this, but perhaps you may consider either one a loose canon.”

     Finally, the intangible voice offered an opinion. “It came to my attention that the ‘need to know’ directive was circumvented, and certain knowledge was imparted to this companion, enabling him to find ‘John Doe.’ We have been keeping a close eye to see exactly what that companion does with this information. We have also been keenly interested in learning how much the patient can recall surrounding his mental collapse.”

     There was an extended pause, while Wellington waited for sometimes more concrete regarding a plausible course of action.

     Finally, the hollow voice resumed speaking once more. “Since the patient now recalls his past, he, no doubt, will wish to remain off the grid, as that is in his best interest as well as his companion’s. If those other buried memories do surface down the road, that is of little consequence. If either man decides to make them public knowledge, I believe their allegations will ultimately only be of interest to those scandal sheets that pander to reports of UFO sightings and the preferred fashion designer of this month’s transgender celebrity.

     Tell them that he is now discharged from your care. Someone will be by to retrieve the patient’s records and your Institute’s computer system will be scrubbed of any evidence of his stay. You have done well, Doctor. Your country thanks you for your service.”

     The phone connection was abruptly terminated, and the psychiatrist breathed a sigh of relief. He really did have a soft spot for Neal and wished him a long and happy life. He deserved it.

**********

 

Epilogue, San Francisco, One Year Later

    

     To Neal’s endless delight, Peter now wore tailored suits and power ties. The man looked hot, especially when he perched those sexy half-glasses on the bridge of his nose! He had a prestigious job at a Fortune 500 company housed in the iconic Transamerica Pyramid on Montgomery Street in the heart of the city’s financial district. He indulged in regular business lunches at Masa’s and Chez Pannise, and, most importantly, he was happy and fulfilled in his professional life as well as his personal one.

     Neal’s “little” rainy day fund had allowed them to purchase a venerable old Victorian “painted lady” gabled home in the famous Pacific Heights area. They now enjoyed a spectacular view of the Golden Gate Bridge, that is, when both could find the time. Peter relished working long hours, and Neal was usually tucked away in the mansion’s atelier on the third floor producing something on canvas, or fashioning a modernistic sculpture. “The McLoughlin Gallery” on Geary Street could not get enough of the popular newcomer’s artistic works. He had become the darling of the chic set—the movers and shakers who dictated the trends in this dynamic town that was now home for two ex-New Yorkers. The bevy of avid customers on the waiting list for new art had learned to be patient. They respected that a masterpiece would be created only when Neal was aesthetically inspired.

     Gone were Byron’s vintage suits. Now Neal’s hair tended to be a bit shaggy and his tee shirts a bit baggy. Peter thought the scruffy, bohemian artist look was hot, and it certainly kept their sex life alive and well! However, they had both toned things down a bit this week, letting careers and sexual escapades simmer on the back burner. June and Mozzie were in town and staying as their guests. While June enjoyed the opera and jewelry shopping, Mozzie tended to prefer Fisherman’s Wharf. He nagged relentlessly until Neal and Peter finally agreed to accompany him out to Alcatraz for a tour. Visiting the infamous prison had been on his bucket list.

     Peter had let contact with his White Collar life die a natural death. That politically controlled rat race was now a thing of the past, and he never regretted leaving New York. Neal had learned to make “home” wherever he found it, and right now being with Peter was home. On a few occasions, he did touch base with Dr. Wellington to let him know that all was well. The physician seemed genuinely glad to hear that. Neal never did reclaim any memories from his tortured captivity, and that was just fine with him. Peter smiled a secret little smile and knew that he would take that horrific tale to his grave before he would ever hurt the man that he loved. The important thing was that Neal now had his shadow back, and all was right in Neverland!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are reading this, then you have stayed with this story to its end. Thank you for that, and for feeding the author by leaving kudos and comments. When you let me know that you enjoy the work, it makes all the hours that went into creating it worthwhile.


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